


Mambo Italiano

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly Hooper, Dorks, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Wank!Lock, it’s for a case, nearly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock and Molly are in Padua in the height of summer, hot on the tail of a cat burglar.They might have gotten their man, but now there’s not a bed left in the city and they’re going to have to share.Oh noes!Smutty good times ahead for out favourite duo.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 18
Kudos: 179





	Mambo Italiano

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Written for the SAW2020 challenge.  _

* * *

**MAMBO ITALIANO**

* * *

_ Padua,  _

_ Italy _

_ High Summer _

_ (It’s for a case)  _

“You want us to do what, now?” 

And Sherlock Holmes, gentleman detective and daredevil extraordinaire, blinks at the tiny old woman in front of him, his expression the very definition of rabbit-in-a-care-headlights. His eyes flicking with petrified speed between Signora Constanza and his companion, one Molly Hooper, as if Satan himself had just appeared before him and tossed him the keys to Purgatory. 

His expression makes the old woman cackle. 

“You no have to pretend,” she says, swiping at his legs with her dishcloth. He jumps as if scalded. She gestures through the open door to their right, eyes alighting on the rather singular, rather small bed in which she is proposing Sherlock and Molly spend the night.  _ Given the size of the town, and the fact that there’s a dental conference on, they have no other choice. _ “I see,” the older woman says wisely, nodding. “I know- I was young once, too.” 

And she taps her the side of her nose theatrically at the detective, her grin turning positively gleeful. 

Despite how horrified Sherlock looks at this Molly is forced to stifle a giggle:  _ God help him if something this simple flusters him.  _

But laughing at him isn’t nice.  _ Tempting, perhaps, but not nice.  _ **_So-_ **

“No, Signora,” she says soothingly, trying to calm the situation before Sherlock starts hyperventilating. Or deducing.  _ Please Lord don’t let him start deducing.  _ “Mr. Holmes and I are just friends-“ 

“Friends?” The old woman laughs. “ _ Friends?  _ Pah!” She leans in close to Molly, drops her voice confidentially. “You stare at his, his, what is the English word? Oh yes, bottom! You stare at his bottom all the way up here.” 

At Sherlock’s smug snort she shoots him a look. Cocks an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass. 

He promptly snaps his mouth shut. 

“And you, you stare at her-“ she makes a cupping motion at her chest which neither Molly nor Sherlock need translated- “whenever she looks away from you. You glare at every other man who does the same, I see you on the stairs. You’re fooling nobody, my friend. Nobody.” 

And she gives another cackling laugh as Holmes’ cheeks turn a magnificent shade of pink. 

He looks utterly flummoxed. 

Despite her best intentions, Molly shares some of his flumm. 

“So I say why lie?” Signora Costanza continues philosophically. “Why pretend you need two beds? NO!” She gestures regally to the bed. “You sleep here. You have fun. You make the jiggy-jiggy and I will say nothing.  _ Nothing.  _ Forget being married: you are only young once, you know.”

She shoots Molly a conspiratorial wink. 

“You should enjoy yourself,  _ bella regazza, _ while you have no arthritis.” And with that she totters off, back to her cronies out on the front steps. The sound of the pension’s door locking behind her sounds almost… ominous in the early evening gloom. 

Sherlock stares after her and his expression suggests he’s planning her murder. 

Molly is seriously considering helping him. 

“Look,” she tries eventually, “look, it’s not too bad-“ 

“Molly!” Sherlock sounds scandalized. “That bed is the size of a postage stamp!” 

Molly crosses her arms. “We’ve shared a bed before.” 

For some reason she can’t guess, Sherlock’s eyes grow more panicked. “Yes, but that was in  _ London _ ,” he says, as if that makes any sort of difference. “And the bed in your flat is at least the size of a tea towel - Not that, that-“ 

“What?” 

“That hankie!” 

Molly crosses her arms.  _ God, he really is a drama queen sometimes.  _ “Well,” she counters sensibly, “What choice do we have? It’s this or those chairs in the bus station. If you want to go back to them you’re welcome to, but I’m staying here.” She takes a breath, tries to turn her voice reasonable.  _ That is not always easy, with him.  _ “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen, hmm..?” 

At her words his eyes darken, expression starting to buffer… God, for a split second Molly could swear that the pink at his cheeks darkens. For a split second she could swear that his eyes do stray down to her chest.  _ Jiggy-jiggy indeed.  _ But then- 

Suddenly he’s back with her. 

Suddenly his expression has turned eminently slappable, which indicates normal service has resumed. 

“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. Straightens his cuffs. Head held high he marches into the bedroom and flops dramatically down on the bed, kicking off his shoes and sending them careening to the far side of the room where they land with a din. An impressively fluffy Persian cat darts out from the place where she had been sleeping and hisses at him for his shoes’ effrontery before darting between Molly’s legs and out into the house beyond. 

_ She can’t help but wonder whether that cat has the right idea.  _

“Come in if you’re coming,” Sherlock says airily. 

She rolls her eyes. 

“God grant me patience,” she mutters under her breath before moving into the room. Plonking herself down on the bed. Sherlock lets out a protesting grunt and she shoots him a look. The git pouts at her but she’s having none of it: her feet are too sore from chasing his precious cat burglar all over Padua today. “Lets just get this over with,” she says before unlacing her boots and setting about pulling them off. 

Sherlock doesn’t move. She looks at him again. 

“Are you going to sleep in that?” She asks pointedly, gesturing to his rumpled suit. 

He glowers down his nose at her. “Maybe.” 

Again she rolls her eyes. “Well  _ I  _ am going to sleep in my undies and I suggest you do the same.” At his outraged sputtering she shrugs. “It’s Padua in the middle of summer, Sherlock,” she says patiently. “You may not mind melting but I bloody well do.” 

And without any further ado she pulls off her windbreaker, shorts and tee. Tosses them across the room to muddle together on top of Sherlock’s shoes until she’s left in only her knickers and bra. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she sighs before turning on her side and squeezing herself into the closest approximation of a comfortable position when there’s a six foot something, fully dressed detective behind you. A detective you happen to be in love with. A detective you may or may not also want to strangle right now. Little as she might want to admit it, he was right: the bed is the size of a postage stamp. Her tea towel sized bed at home would be sooo much better. 

_ Why,  _ Molly wonders despairingly,  _ is my life never simple?  _

_ Oh yes: it’s because I’m friends with  _ **_Sherlock bloody Holmes._ **

Nevertheless she curls in on herself. Decides to try and get to sleep. Sherlock huffs and pouts but doesn’t say a word. Yellow pours into the room from the lone window, set high up into the wall. Sunset light steals slowly inside, like a thief. Outside a church bell sounds the hour; inside a clock ticks down the minutes. It’s peaceful, stiflingly hot but peaceful and slowly, slowly, Molly closes her eyes... Lets herself drowse...

She doesn’t see Sherlock staring at her in the gloom, and she doesn’t see the exasperated, worried,  _ fond  _ look on his face. 

She doesn’t feel him brush a stray hair off her forehead. 

She doesn’t hear him mutter, “Bloody hell,” softly, softly. 

No, she sleeps, not knowing how he watches her in the growing, gentling dark. 

* * *

She wakes up to a heartbeat under her ear and arms around her waist. 

She’s drooling on something which is a)quite warm, b)quite firm and c)really rather sweaty.

It takes her a moment to realise that it’s a sleeping Sherlock. A still-clothed, rakishly ruffled Sherlock.

_ Well,  _ she thinks.  **_Damn._ **

Squinting into the darkness Molly spies the clock, makes out the time.  _ It’s just past three in the morning.  _

“Bugger,” she mutters, wondering why on earth her body chose to wake her now and praying firmly that she won’t have trouble falling back asleep. Praying also that her sleeping companion is still unconscious and not in a position to ask her what on earth she’s doing- 

“Do stop moving around, Molly.” 

She blinks, surprised, and looks up to find Sherlock looking blearily down at her. 

He has a pillow crease across his cheek and his curls are in disarray. 

He’s also, inexplicably, smiling, his eyes electric blue in the gloom. 

Her heart skips a beat. 

“Whazzah?” She asks, her tongue thick with sleep. At his snort she blinks. Straightens. Tries to martial her thoughts. She narrows her eyes in an attempt to look both awake and imposing. “I mean, what did you say?” 

“I told you to stop moving about.” 

And inexplicably his smile widens slightly. Gets softer. Though the words should sound bossy they’re not. Despite everything, everything she’s told herself about him- _ about  _ **_them_ ** **-** in the last few years Molly feels her stomach flip at the sight, feels her pulse starting to climb. It thuds in her ears. She is suddenly very aware of how closely they’re pressed together. 

_ God,  _ she finds herself thinking,  _ God, he’s right there… I could just reach out and ki- _

“Go back to sleep, Molly.” 

The words are said fondly, kindly, but they brook no disagreement. She frowns up at him, sleepily relieved at his being reasonable and yet awake enough to know that he normally wouldn’t be. Awake enough to know that there’s something she’s missing, something he’s decided not to say- 

As if in answer to her questioning expression he presses a kiss to her forehead. 

His lips are dry and chapped and really rather soft. They leave a burning impression where they meet her skin and she takes in a sharp breath. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says again, more softly. “I’ll- We can talk tomorrow.” 

“Talk?” 

“Yes, talk.” Again that soft, quirking smile. “It’s this thing you do with your mouth.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Git.”

“Naturally.” Again he smiles. “Now get some sleep.” 

And he drops his head down to his pillow and closes his eyes. Tired, she lets her own eyes droop shut. Lets herself relax against him.  _ If he’s not going to complain about being nuzzled then she will continue to nuzzle away _ . “Just so long as you don’t try to make any jiggy-jiggy with me,” she murmurs sleepily and he laughs. Tightens his grip on her. She finds herself thinking, disjointedly, that his hand is so big the palm covers almost the entirety of her waist. 

“Were we to make the jiggy-jiggy together, Molly,” he says gravely, “I assure you that we’d both be awake enough to enjoy it.” He presses a kiss to her hair. His eyes are drifting shut. “Now sleep.” 

Molly means to ask him about his words, she really does, but she’s already halfway into slumber again.  _ And besides, he’s only joking- Isn’t he?  _

Before she can say another word sleep claims her completely. 

Sherlock smiles and holds her close, buries his nose in her hair. It smells of sweat and dust and that damn Italian police sargeant’s aftershave. It smells of her shampoo and the starch in their sheets and Molly, Molly, Molly. 

_ There’s nothing more soothing than the scent of Molly.  _

He smiles at the thought and lets his mind drift, assuming he won’t sleep but determined that she will.

* * *

He wakes the next morning before she does. 

Given the way he awakens, to a morning stiffy (not that unusual when sharing a bed with Molly) and a crick in his neck (also not that unusual, she’s very short), he thinks that that’s probably for the best. 

He certainly has no desire to explain away his morning erection to her. 

He just hopes he can get rid of it without waking her up. 

At the thought he expels a breath, turns to look at her. She’s pretty and peaceful in the morning light but then she always is.  _ The realisation, as it always does, makes him sigh.  _ If this were London then he would sneak into the bathroom and... take care of matters.  _ This is not London, however.  _ The room has no en-suite or shower, just a bucket, a bar of soap and a tap with a mirror above it-  _ So at least he’ll be able to shave.  _

Knowing that cold water will help with his little “problem,” he slides out carefully from under her arm. Gets out of bed. Giving an experimental twist he determines that the faucet doesn’t make noise and so quietly fills the bucket up. Strips off wrinkled his shirt and trousers so that he’s finally able to feel the fresh morning air on his bare skin. He sighs with pleasure, tipping his head back and raking a hand through his curls. Stretching. 

Were she not in the room this is precisely the sort of morning where he would indulge himself with thoughts of Molly, he muses.  _ It always lasts longer, feels better, when he imagines it’s her.  _ At first he’d felt horrified at himself, guilty for how he was thinking about her but over the last year or so he’s come to accept his feelings as nothing to be ashamed of. Wanting Molly is eminently natural since she is, well, her.  _ If only you could get your thumb out and tell her as much,  _ a voice which sounds distinctly like John mutters in his ear. Despite himself Sherlock sighs, shaking his head: this is not the first time his inner Watson has made that observation. Nor is it the first time that he has responded that it’s not the right time _.  _

_ If it’s with Molly,  _ he always tells himself,  _ then everything has to be perfect.  _

And since sharing a tiny bed in an Italian dump while they’re both knackered and sweaty is as far from perfect as he can imagine he sighs. Wets the towel and soap as he lathers it in his hand. Molly continues to breathe softly behind him, gentle and drowsy and deep.  _ She’s so pretty in the morning. _ He sets about washing himself, starting with the source of his morning discomfort- 

“Sherlock?” He hears Molly’s voice ask sleepily. “What are you doing?” 

Slightly horrified, doing his best not look it, and painfully aware that he can’t turn around, Sherlock tries to sound arch. He’s aware she can see his bare backside but, well, that can’t be helped. 

_ He’d rather be considered a sex object than a perv.  _

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He asks. Realising how high his voice has gotten he compensates, dropping to Barry White-esque deepness. “I’m washing myself-” 

“I see that.” A tiny pause, and he can practically see her biting her lip in his mind’s eye. “Do you- Do you want me to step out for a moment?” 

Her tone suggests that she’s embarrassed, but why would she be-?

He belatedly realises that there’s a tiny hand mirror pinned to the wall near the bed and because of where it’s positioned and the mirror in front of him she can see precisely what he has been doing to himself, and why. 

_ Oh,  _ he thinks. 

**_Oh bugger_ ** _.  _

As if to signal its agreement with this assessment his erection immediately starts to flag and he’s not sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed. 

_ Being British, he is aware that he can do both.  _

His distress must be obvious because he hears the sheets move, hears her pad across the floor. She comes to a stop behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes meet his in the mirror in front of him, her expression soft and kind. 

She is making a point of not looking anywhere but his face.

There’s that same sweet hunger there usually is in her eyes when she’s looking at him but he can see that she’s trying to keep a lid on it for his sake. 

Again, he’s not sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” she says quietly. “I’ve had boyfriends. Lots of men do, well,  _ that _ in the morning.” Her cheeks turn a little redder. “Some of us girls do it too, it’s nothing to be ashamed of-“ 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut because now he’s imagining  _ her  _ doing that and it is not the sort of mental image which will help with this situation. 

As if to chime in in agreement his erection takes this moment to perk back up. 

He knows Molly noticed because now she’s averted her eyes. 

“I can just…” She goes to move away and as she does something snaps in Sherlock. Without thinking about why he reaches out. Grabs her elbow. Halts her. 

“Don’t go,” he mutters and this time he can hear the arousal in his voice. The want. 

_ She’s So. Bloody. Near.  _

“What do you want me to do?” She asks and she’s breathless, oh she’s breathless- Beautiful-  _ Molly _ . He finally turns to look at her and her cheeks are scarlet, the blush spreading all the way down her chest and disappearing inside her bra. It peeks out from beneath the flimsy white cotton and spreads down her belly towards her knickers, drawing his eye there too. Her breathing is heavy- so is his- and she’s staring at him like he’s the centre of the universe- 

_ It occurs to him disjointedly that he’s the only person he ever wants her to look at like that.  _

He moves so quickly that it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his body; By the time it does he’s ducked his head towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulls her tightly against him; Her breasts hit his chest and they both drag in a breath. She might want to say something but before she can he presses his mouth to hers, lips open as hers are. Breath laboured, as hers is. Their mouths meet, press, and then, then they’re helpless. Endless. Kiss upon kiss upon kiss passes between them, and everything is velvet and wet and good, good,  _ good.  _ Their breathing is loud, their limbs tangling together.  _ It feels so much better in real life than it ever did in his head. _ Molly wraps her arms around him and kisses him hotly. Brings her legs up to catch around his waist, almost making him fall sideways with the new weight- 

“Oops,” she lets out a peel of laughter and Sherlock can’t help his own grin. 

With a grunt he manages to right himself and her. He stumbles backwards towards that tiny little bed of theirs and they fall upon it. Bodies press together in heat. Need. Molly landed beneath him and he just manages to stop himself from knocking the breath from her-  _ Can’t have anyone hurting his Molly, now can he?  _

“I’m your Molly, am I?” She asks and he nods. Grins. Leans down and kisses her thoroughly. 

When he comes up for air her eyes are glazed. Starry. Without being asked she pulls off her little bralet and tosses it away before grabbing him again. Kissing him again. His hands find her arse and he pulls her to him. She yanks sharply at his hair- which feels  _ amazing-  _ and then drags his mouth down to her breasts. Moans at him to suck them, kiss them, bite them- 

“Bite them?” He asks. 

“Bite them,” she growls, wriggling against him. 

_ When she puts it like that he is happy to oblige.  _

Somewhere in the middle of all this he realises that Molly’s knickers are gone and that her hands are now scrabbling, trying to find his cock. Without thinking he pulls her hand to it and then she’s tugging him, once, twice. She nips his lower lip as she does and he lets out a low, guttural moan. Still on top he feels her guide him inside, hisses in pleasure as he slides gently inside her- “Like that,” she murmurs, “oh god, just like that…” 

She stares up at him with huge eyes, biting her lip, and Sherlock feels like his heart might beat its way out of his chest. 

_ Fuck, but everything feels so…  _ **_right_ ** _ with her.  _

She moves her hips as he does, pressing in to meet him and it feels so bloody good Sherlock thinks his eyes are going to roll back in his head. He thinks, for one hellish moment, that he might come right then and there and in desperation he closes his eyes. Tries to force himself to concentrate. He hears her murmur a question and he shakes his head. Mutters how he wants it to be good for her. 

“Of course it will be good for me, Sherlock,” she answers. He opens his eyes and what he sees in hers is so bright. So welcome. “Of course it will be good for me,” she says. “It’s with you.” 

Something, something worried, tense thing inside him loosens at her words and he finally, finally, lets himself go. 

So they set an energetic pace. Sharp and quick. Panting and heady. They nip and bite and tug and knead and Jesus but Sherlock never imagined his sweet little Molly would be such a vixen or that he would like her this much when she is. The elderly bed bounces with their movements, the headboard clipping smartly against the wall as they push into one another again and again. And again and again-again. A picture of some saint is knocked off the wall beside them but Sherlock certainly isn’t going to stop and put it back again and Molly whoops in laughter, delighted with the sound. 

They won’t last long like this, Sherlock knows that. Still he tries to lengthen it out for her. He sees her close her eyes and bury her face in his throat. Hears her moan his name and then she’s coming, shaking. She digs her nails sharply into his back and it makes him see stars. Helpless, he feels his own climax slam through him. It makes his skin burn, his heart thud, pleasure pouring through him like river rapids. Like waves. He’s panting and boneless and so bloody satisfied he thinks he might have forgotten how language words-

“Well,” she murmurs into his throat. “That was… Gosh.”

She sounds utterly, utterly spent and utterly, utterly delighted with herself. 

When he peeks a look down at her, her cheeks are a rosy, perfect red. 

Without thinking Sherlock tips her face up to his. Kisses her. He strokes her cheek as he does it, tries to pour all of his happiness and all of his longing and all of his dear-god-that-was-good gratitude into the kiss. And maybe he succeeds because when he pulls back she’s beaming at him. Her hands are threading through the hair at his nape and those beautiful brown eyes of hers appear to see only him. Only him. 

“Good?” He asks, though he’s not exactly sure what he’s referring to. 

“Good,” Molly says, and though he’s not sure what precisely she means it still brings a warm glow to his chest. Still makes him kiss her again. 

This time she sighs against his lips and he buries his nose in her hair. 

For a moment they just lay there, happy and delighted and utterly, utterly satiated by everything they’ve done together- 

And then they hear it: Clapping, coming from the square outside their room. There are whistles and stamps and above them all he recognises the voice of their landlady. “Brava, Bella regazza!” She calls. “You get to make the jiggy-jiggy with your tosaro!”

For a moment Molly and Sherlock stare at one another, cheeks equally red and feelings equally mortified, but then- 

Sherlock darts over and closes the window. Pulls across the curtains. 

He dives beneath their single sheet and pulls Molly as close as he can. 

“Ready for round two?” He asks gamely. “Bella regazza?” 

The look Molly shoots him is incendiary. “Sleep first,” she says. “Then round two-“ 

He nods to her. “And round three, when we get back to London?” He asks. 

She nods. “Round four when we make it to my flat.” 

Sherlock takes her face in his hands. Kisses her. It would seem, he muses, that he has finally found the perfect time to show Molly how he feels. “Round five in Baker Street,” he tells her. 

“Round six in Scotland Yard,” she murmurs. “Or maybe- just maybe- my office in St Barts’.” 

By the time they finds location for round 27, they’re ready to start on round two again. 

“Onwards?” He murmurs. 

“Onwards,” she tells him. 

And that is how they spend the day, the week, the month- And the rest of their lives. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
